The Bride Price (9 page)

Sebastien changed rhythm, moving forward on attack and catching Parley off guard. A flash of light suddenly caught the edge of his awareness. He parried Parley and made to thrust when the light caught him dead in the eye, momentarily blinding him. He could feel Parley step closer,
could sense the crowd tipped in anticipation of a score, but the movement in front created a starburst of color surrounding a circle of white.

Something split the air, the blade slicing through the corona, and Sebastien feinted left, Parley’s blade an inch from sliding along his stomach, hitting the air where he had just been.

He pulled his epee up and tagged Parley, the movement sending him out of the beam of light. A trick of tilted glass from the window, or something more sinister? He stepped back, allowing Parley to advance upon his seeming retreat. He allowed Parley to continually thrust him back, until the light hit Parley’s face. The light was yanked away. Something more sinister then.

Sebastien stepped in for the kill, tagging him a final time, wishing, just a little, that the blades were untipped.

Parley ripped off his gloves at the sidelines as the next two took their positions.

“It wasn’t fair. Something tried to blind me.”

“Something
did
blind me, Parley. Get past it.”

“You pushed me in the direction of the light then,” Parley said, accusation and defiance dripping from his words.

“Of course I did,” Sebastien explained in a way that a two-year-old might understand. “When you fight you use every tactic to your advantage. Someone deliberately reflected the light onto me. You simply moved into the path that was already there, just like a window’s light. Your inattention was your disadvantage.”

Parley’s face turned even more mottled.

“What did you see?” one of the women asked the prig.

“White. Like a mirror.”

“The ghost,” she whispered. Another woman tittered.

Ghost? Women were such odd creatures sometimes. “It wasn’t a ghost,” Sebastien said. “It was treachery.”

“The ghost was trying to disorient him,” the one woman said to the other.

Sebastien clenched his fists, his patience nearly evaporated. He turned his attention to the pair dueling as the women whispered about spirits.

The competition continued on, weeding through the brackets, and in the second to last round, he finally met Sloane, who scored a preponderance of hits, and bowed out to him. Benedict was beaten by Everly on the other side of the draw, as expected. Benedict eyed him in mutual dislike. He and Benedict would be declared third and fourth depending on which man won the last bout.

The match wore on for what seemed like hours, Sloane gaining a single point while Everly claimed none. Sloane was clearly toying with Everly, evaluating his strengths and weaknesses. Sebastien leaned against the wall waiting for Sloane to win so that he could collect third. Another win to a bastard son. Another small victory, even if he wasn’t the one to gain it. He saw the reflections on the other faces. The eagerness versus the tight-lipped disgust.

His eyes shifted to the blonde, watching with Lady Sarah in the corner. Her face held a look of fierce concentration as she watched.

All of a sudden a crack sounded, and Sloane’s blade separated from its guard, clattering to the floor.

Everly attacked with hot greed, plunging in and striking Sloane for the point, taking advantage of his opponent’s misfortune.

Sloane looked down at the broken epee in amazement. People began murmuring on the sidelines. Some arguing that Everly shouldn’t be rewarded the point, others saying whatever it took to win was acceptable. Most seemed to agree with the latter.

“He’s a cheat,” Bateman slurred.

“He’s the son of an earl!”

“Sloane is the son of a marquess. That trumps an earl.”

“He’s a bastard. And if there is any cheating going on, then it is on your side. Bastards all cheat,” Parley proclaimed.

“Bastards all cheat? What is this? Wisdom from a third son, no better than a dog,” one of the lesser-known contestants said.

Parley shook his fist. “Better than you, you mangy bastard.”

“And what is this about ‘our side’? The thirds and fourthies trying to stake a ‘better than thou’ claim on the competition?” Timtree cocked his head.

“Better than you,” Parley said, looking ready to draw blood.

“How tiring you’ve become.”

The fathers watched avariciously, which did little to improve Sebastien’s mood over the ire already incurred by the legitimate sons’ taunting.

“Everly won,” yelled a contestant Sebastien had barely spared any mind.

“Everly scored a point, you dilettante fourthie, he didn’t win,” Timtree countered.

Irritated and annoyed by it all, Sebastien stepped in and handed his blade to Sloane. “Here. I’ve checked mine; it seems to be fine.”

“Maybe you were the one who weakened his blade,” Benedict said.

“Don’t be an ass. As if I would sabotage Sloane instead of Everly, some cock-kissing third.” He looked directly at Benedict, who went puce.

Voices erupted again, chaos embracing the room.

Caroline walked down the steps of the squire’s house, a basket full of lemons in her arms, plans for the village celebration in her head, and sketches for the final two games dropped off with the assignments. There was extensive planning needed for both. They had successfully scheduled the village festivities to take place during the two-week break in the tournament. Cheevers had assured her that most of the guests would leave then. She hoped so, otherwise their small village celebration would be overrun with society guests, who had no business being there.

The party tonight would be overflowing with such people.

She grimaced. More and more she could see how the notoriety would help Sarah’s social status in the future, but the idea that she could be saddled with someone like Deville for a husband didn’t sit well.

No, she’d not argue the tournament outright,
but she would continue with her plans. First the saddles, then the blades, then the mirrors, then the ghost, then the trousers, then the…

She kept up a steady stream of planning as she walked through the valley and up the hill, looking at the ground in front of her without really paying attention. The well-traveled path from the village to her cottage was automatic. Her feet knew the path without her having to think about it.

It was a dangerous road she trod by altering the games. The first game had been a lark, a test. The earl hadn’t so much as looked at her strangely when he’d talked about pranks or the switched items—he sometimes terribly underestimated women, which was to her advantage.

And with others sabotaging as well, and in more evil ways than she could ever dream, the culpability and guilt was spread.

She approached the Roman ruins near the top of the hill, tripping slightly over a small stone, her mind not on the path in front of her. A lemon rolled from her basket and hit the ground with a plop, a spurt of juice indicating a tear in the rind. She sighed and bent down to pick it up.

“A lovely view, but you’ll lose them all, if you aren’t careful.”

Three more lemons spilled as she jerked upward to see Sebastien Deville lazily lounging on top of one of the stone arches above her. Shock tore through her in the same way the lemons split upon the rocks. Every memory, every touch and sigh, played through her mind. She forcibly strangled them into submission.

She swallowed heavily, gathering her defenses to the fore. “Have you no shame, sir? Those arches are over a thousand years old.”

One leg swung indolently like a pendulum in need of winding. “As old as all that? Were you alive to see them built then? An old maid such as yourself?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Get down.”

“Perhaps.” He smiled, swinging his leg, relaxing on one hand. “I’ve been waiting for you, and now that I have this lovely view, just able to peek down the valley of your dress, I’m not sure I want to relinquish my vantage point in the least.”

Her free hand automatically pressed against her chest. Everything in her that was sane told her to run, but her limbs seemed lethargically frozen in a parody of immobility.

He leaned forward, his hands splayed to the rock on either side of his thighs, rich brown hair falling into his eyes. “Now that wasn’t a very nice thing to do to my view. Should we cast bones to determine whether I hop off or whether you resume the show?”

“I believe I shall abstain.”

“From which?”

“From
both
.”

“Perhaps you’d rather climb up here? We could test the sturdiness of the arch together.” One side of his mouth lifted. “You put in quite the effort on the bench the other night.”

Her cheeks burned. She reached down to gather the broken lemons. “I don’t know to what you are referring. Good day, sir.” She stepped forward.

“Do you really wish to leave?” he asked in a voice full of humor. “I’ll just have to ask again in front of a crowd at the manor.”

She stopped and turned back. “I can’t believe I—You are a
wretched
man.”

He smiled devilishly. “I believe you mean a
wonderful
man. I helped you with your sketch, after all.”

“You took advantage of me.”

“Such an ugly phrase. I prefer to think of it as persuading you to use my heavenly body to
your
advantage.” His eyes dropped to her lips. “Which I’m pleased to say you did.”

Her mouth dropped. She tried to utter any number of set downs, but nothing emerged.

“Catching the butterflies again?” He whipped the hair from his eyes with a jerk of his head. The lock slowly slid back. “Which shall it be? Are you coming up or am I going down?” There was a wry tug of his mouth. “I must say that both options sound appealing. I believe a toss of the dice may truly be in order.”

“I dislike gambling,” she said automatically.

“Dislike gambling? It is our country’s favorite pastime.”

“Indeed. Perhaps you should return to the house; there are plenty of horrid men there who will wager with you. Gambling your lots away.” Gambling her
friend
away.

His fingers played over the stone. His eyes turned heavy and jaded. “A Puritan, Miss Sculler? Against all sorts of things? Like gambling, alcohol, the manner of one’s birth?”

Anger pulsed through her, but at least he hadn’t learned her name. Surprising. “
Mrs
.”

“Married? Even better.” One edge of his mouth curled.

He was in fine form today, as if truly happy to see her, which was ridiculous—he could no more care for her than she for him. His eyes were still shadowed and cynical, thankfully, which kept him from being undeniable. His flashes of spark and creativity intrigued her, but the set of his features, which promised he could turn derisive and cruel—his reputation only confirming that to be true—repelled. He reminded her too much of Patrick before he’d gotten himself killed by a vengeful husband. A charming scoundrel turned bitter and jaded, looking to move to greener pastures.

“Widowed,” she said tersely, immediately irritated she had said anything at all.

“The news just keeps growing lovelier.” His smile curved further. “And since you mentioned all of us sinners at the house, I can only presume to have the pleasure of the company of Caroline Martin, a long-distant relative who lives on the edge of the estate. Not much of a scullery maid after all.”

So much for him not knowing her name. Her lips pinched. “Very good,
Mr. Deville
. Now if you don’t mind, my Puritan spirit would like to return home.”

A sinful pull of lips followed. “Now that we are all introduced, it would be a shame to part ways so quickly.”

“I wouldn’t find it a shame in the least.”

“I’m not sure I believe you. Not after your body’s reactions at Roseford.” He stretched, his shirt pulling across his chest. “What is so important that you have to return home posthaste? Perhaps I may be of assistance.”

Since she was plotting ways to destroy him, she doubted it. “I’m planning a midsummer celebration for the villagers. Do you care to speculate on the placement of the poles?”

A gleam entered his eyes. “I can speculate quite a bit on the placement of a pole.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You are not a gentleman.”

His smile grew more deadly, and his eyes hooded. “Never.”

He stared at her. She stared back. She shifted but did not relinquish whatever battle of wills they were playing. “Was there something you wished, Mr. Deville? Or do you simply plan to annoy me this afternoon?”

He vaulted from the top of the arch and landed on cat feet, stealthy and sure. She scrambled backward, lemons scattering. Two steps brought him closer to her, and she stopped herself from taking a step back like a hare hunted by a fox.

“Have I frightened you, Caroline?” he asked innocently, but his eyes said he knew better.

“What a silly question. And I did not give you permission to use my name.”

She crouched to collect the fallen fruit, never letting her eyes stray from his as she lifted each one.

He stepped closer. Lethal blue-green eyes
pinned her. Stalking her like prey. “You seem unsure of my presence. I seem to have a rather unsettling effect on your nerves.”

“My nerves are perfectly steady.” Her hands gripped the last lemon in one hand and the basket in the other. “I am simply tired, and being in your ghastly presence has made me long for a year’s nap.”

He put a hand over hers. She tried to pull hers away, but it was trapped in silk.

“Then why are you still here?”

“Your threats bullied me into staying. It is impolite of you to suggest otherwise.”

“Excellent.” And suddenly he was mere inches in front of her, leaning into her, a finger tipping her chin up. “Then if I were to kiss you, it would be impolite to resist.”

The pad of his finger held her chin tipped toward his. Zings of sensation pulsed from the point. Trapped like the hare in the fox’s net.

Her brain screamed for her to move. His face came closer, the aquamarine of his eyes glowing brighter as his head blocked the sun from view. A feeling beat in her throat, throbbing downward to deep within her belly, a conduit of charged lust and anticipation. A feeling that had long lain dormant before he had entered her well-regulated life, and had revived tenfold in magnitude.